Washington Worries
by sam938
Summary: Washington receptions just aren’t Jack’s cup of tea. Especially when the President, the press, the Russians and various and sundry riff raff are involved. And, of course, who knows who else might crash the party. S/J. RST. Season9. Now an A/U.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Washington Worries

Title: Washington Worries

Author: Sam938

Summary: Washington receptions just aren't Jack's cup of tea. Especially when the President, the press, the Russians and various and sundry riff raff are involved. And, of course, who knows who else might crash the party.

Classification: S/J. RST. Established relationship. Some adventure.

Spoilers: Now an A/U. Set at the beginning of season 9.

Archive: Please ask. This has not been posted before in any location.

Disclaimers: Don't own them, didn't create them, and this is purely for fun and not profit.

Status: NOT complete. Four chapters to date, those written in 2005 or 6. I'm hoping to refurbish and finish while working on a longer tale also not yet posted. Multi-tasking - r -us.

Feedback: Yes, thanks! I'd very much appreciate it. It'd help the finishing part… grin. I do love working under pressure.

A/N. A whole bunch of research was done to verify the setting of this. There is a Blair House; it does seat 75 for dinner; it is the small w h, used for receptions. The Ritz is in Georgetown (although the interior decorating is mine.. .grin). The protocol for receptions Jack describes is actually correct; or if it's wrong, I have interpreted docs incorrectly. Yeah, I checked… love this stuff. Half the fun of writing anything is the research into very odd questions. (Yeah; I know. Odd duck stuff there.) Thought I'd post this part of this unfinished tale, just for fun, given that RDA was looking so elegant at the Continuum preview. Yeah, ok. Enough of that. Cough. On with the tale.

1.

Sandra Peterson stared down from her vantage point at the top of the grand staircase of the Georgetown Ritz-Carlton into the hall where the reception had just begun. She grinned at the scene. Elegance personified. The room was glittering; the company both distinguished and decorative; the music perfectly in synch with the ambiance. There were nearly two hundred in attendance, a full house for Washington.

It was going to make for great copy.

She wasn't going to admit that to Harry Cook, though-- the official "behind the scenes" organizer of events of this type. It might just go to his head. Not to mention that that kind of admission would set an unfortunate precedent. If the Press actually started complimenting White House PR, who knew where it would lead.

"Not bad, Harry. But it's also too bad that you couldn't use Blair House."

Harry glanced at her and then shrugged. "Only seats 75 for dinner."

She didn't buy that for a minute as a reason for moving the event away from the accepted "white house for receptions with a small 'w and h'", even though she knew it was technically true.

"Ok, uhuh, sure. Look, what's the story? If not Blair, and the problem's just the size of the event, why not throw a certified, signed, sealed and delivered official State function at the White House? Why here? You have to admit that using the Ritz for a state sponsored reception is, well, weird. "

Harry shook his head in exasperation. "Sandra, there's nothing going on. Quit sniffing, because there's no dirt. It's just politics as usual. This event is supposed to be a joint celebration; not just one sponsored by us. That's why no White House digs, and why we didn't use Blair. And that's why both the President and the Ambassador were in the receiving line. This is neutral ground.

"And let me tell you that it wasn't easy to set up this little do. The White House wanted understated elegance that would send the right message about the successful conclusion of the negotiations. Low key, but star studded, with the perfect combination of glitter and power to take it out of the ordinary politico scene and into promo that would make it worthy of press attention."

He paused and then swallowed. "Did it work?"

Sandra smiled, scanning the room, and gave him a bit of a bone. "Oh, yeah. I can do something with this. With any luck, my editor will deem it page one copy and it'll go AP. That good enough for you?"

Harry relaxed and then smiled. "I think the President would appreciate that."

She glanced around the room once again, identifying VIPs and local Washington celebrities.

"Must have been tough to find all the 'decoration'. The politicos aren't exactly easy pickings for 'beautiful people.'"

She looked around with interest. Harry had managed the impossible. He hadn't pulled out the "Hollywood types"; given the seriousness of the event that would have been too tacky for words. She sighed. Too bad. If he'd made that mistake, it would have been good copy. Still, he had managed to stack the room with unknown, at least by her, but elegant 'decoration'. Nice touch.

She sighed, looking for something, anything, to work with. Then she grinned. "Harry, my friend, it looks like you had to pull a few worms out of the woodwork." She gestured toward the end of the room, by the bar. "Isn't that Adrianne Warner? I haven't seen her at one of these soirées since she insulted the First Lady. Still, she is elegant."

He sighed. "Yeah; elegant and uninvited. I wasn't that desperate. She came with Ambassador Rankin. Given the situation, I couldn't turn her away."

"Now that's interesting."

"Sandra, this little ditty is, as I have said repeatedly, about the successful conclusion of the Russian-American negotiations related to the new Homeworld security measures, whatever the hell they are. No sordid gossip stories, for Gods sakes. You're the Washington Post, not the Daily. If you were, you wouldn't be here."

"Well, hell, Harry, you have to give me something of human interest. Otherwise, it won't get read. And on another note, where are all the uniforms? I thought the military types were supposed to be here with .. uhh...in force."

"Funny."

Sandra grinned. "You know what I mean. No blues. No greens, tans or even purples for that matter."

"That was at the White House's request. Didn't want the military making a strong visual statement. So, tuxes. I had a hell of a time convincing a few of them, especially O'Neill."

She smiled, remembering that O'Neill had been one of the potential human interest stories she'd hoped to use as back up if nothing else materialized this evening to get the story press. "Yeah, O'Neill; the newly appointed supposedly military genius hero type heading up the Air Force's Homeworld strategy. It will be useful to finally get some ops of him. Until now, he's been so classified no one's gotten a good look at him. That might sell."

She was trying to be polite. Air Force Generals as selling points? Not a chance. Not a chance in hell. She turned back to scan the scene, hoping for more dirt, political and/or personal. Either would work.

She stopped suddenly. "Uh... Harry, didn't you warn your 'decorations' to stay away from the President and the Ambassador?"

"Yeah, why? I can't see them from here. What's going on?" He moved over to where he had a better view of the floor.

"One of them isn't obeying orders. There's definitely a 'decoration' monopolizing the President. I mean, look at that body, not to mention those eyes. Tall, deliciously distinguished, well, not like any politico type I know of. And I do know 'em all. You're in trouble, Harry. The President isn't going to be --"

"Sandra."

"What?"

"That's Major General Jack O'Neill."

"**That's** O'Neill?"

"Yeah."

She couldn't stop the grin. "Oh, god, sometimes I love this job. You've definitely got AP with this one, Harry. Possibly world-wide."

If possible, Harry turned even paler than he'd been before. "Stop. This is about the negotiations, not the military. And you saw O'Neill's bio. I sent them all. He doesn't like publicity and most of his career is classified anyway."

"Well, Harry, that's just tough. He's the new kid on the block now and he's gonna have to deal. Of course, with that packaging I'd be glad to provide some instruction on how he should handle the press. "

"Sandra, pull back the claws. He's married. You know that."

"Yeah, I read that. Some sort of genius scientist, right? Rumor has it she'd have won the Nobel three times over if her work wasn't classified. Of course, that's rumor for you. Astrophysicist, in the military, no less."

She smiled, thinking. " Gotta be a dog, with that pedigree. No wonder she's stationed in Colorado. You know, Colorado is a long way away from..."

"Excuse me."

Sandra looked back cheerfully at the 5'9'' blonde 'decoration' that had just arrived and interrupted her conversation with Harry. She sighed regretfully as she noted the perfect figure and features. The woman would make great copy. Too bad she was just an ornamental.

Still, maybe she could be used as background filler. And at least the blonde's taste was excellent; midnight blue pencil thin dress, long sleeves with a coweled neckline that displayed precisely the right amount of front, back and leg. Matched her eyes as well. The hair and makeup were perfect for the occasion. The woman had style.

The dress finally clicked. "Versase."

"Excuse me?"

Sandra repeated herself, wondering how bright the lightbulb was behind the façade. "Versase."

When the blonde looked confused, Sandra made a sweeping motion towards her dress. "The designer of your dress," she commented patiently, deciding dim didn't even begin to cover it.

"I have no idea. I liked the color and the cut. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I thought you said you knew where General O'Neill was."

Sandra gestured obligingly in the General's direction. "He's the eye candy with the President, honey. Look, as friendly advice, I know he's the latest ... uh... 'Mystery on the Mall', but as Harry points out, he's taken."

"Oh, that works for me. Besides, I thought I heard you say she was a... umm...unattractive."

"Don't know for sure, she's late. But those brainy military types... well."

"I see. Well, then, I think I'll take my chances."

Sandra noted suddenly that Harry had turned a bright shade of red and looked ready to choke.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry."

Sandra watched, amused, as Harry actually did finally choke.

She looked back at the blonde with renewed interest. There had to be something in there, even if the lightbulb was off, if Harry was going all red.

"This is Sandra Peterson, from the Washington Post. Sandra, this is --."

The blonde broke in. "It's alright. You must be Harry Cook."

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry I'm late. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll let the General know I'm here." With that, the blonde headed purposefully down the main staircase.

"Sandra, you ass."

It finally clicked. She grinned, delighted. "Was that...?"

"Colonel Doctor Samantha Carter O'Neill."

Sandra positively glowed. "Oh god, I really, really love this job. Harry, you've definitely made AP worldwide."

"Damn it, Sandra."

"Fabulous. Harry, I love you. We just broke the military mold. God, what a story. He's handsome, distinguished; she's brainy and beautiful; and there's enough mystery about them both because of the classified stuff to make for -- damn, Harry, you're looking at the new military poster kids of the decade."

"Sandra, just leave it alone. And for god sakes, they're not 'kids'. They're highly decorated and respected military officers. "

"Hell, Harry, you think I don't know that? Just stop for a moment and think."

When Harry looked ready to bolt on her, she tried wheedling. " C'mon, stop and think about it. They're a high class act. It's gonna sell big time. And what makes it even better is that with all the mystery surrounding their careers I can probably safely infer in print that they've saved the world a few times or something equally as good."

She continued, thinking aloud about how to set up the story to generate the largest audience. "And then there's the romance angle - when did you say they were married? I thought you couldn't do that in the military."

"That was a special situation that -"

She waved the away the conditionals that he was beginning to spout with her hand.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Harry. Your opinion's not important to the story. Theirs is. And I'll get it out of them eventually. The point is that the whole thing's what fairy tales are made of. It's gonna be big. "

"Damn it, Sandra. This is not what I brought you here for."

"Yeah. I know. But that's your problem, not mine. "

"Don't do this."

"They're public figures, Harry. I can do anything I damn well please, as long as it isn't libelous, of course. I am, as you mentioned, the Post, after all."

"That's not --"

"Did you or did you not invite me here to make this shindig noticed?"

"You were invited because you were the only reporter at the Post group who's fluent in six dialects of Russian, as well as Polish and Czech."

"Harry, it's boring to have to repeat myself. Did you or did you not invite me here to get this shindig noticed?"

"I-yes."

"Then let me do my job the way I see fit. I'll see you later. I have some photos to take." She looked around carefully for the best vantage spot. "What's with the... uhh... 'waiters'?"

"What?"

"There." She pointed in sequence to three of the exits, where men in what she quickly dismissed as rental tuxes were stationed.

"Hell if I know. The FBI's in charge of Security, thank god."

"Well, that's not standard FBI garb. Tuxes, rental admittedly, and bad rental at that, but tuxes are not the FBI norm."

"Who knows? Who cares? Maybe it's them, maybe it's part of the catering staff, monitoring activity. Not my problem. And if you know what's good for you, and for me, you'll stay away from them."

"Not a chance. They've got the best seats in the house. I don't suppose you can..." she watched as his face turn to stone, "No. OK, I'll just follow Colonel O'Neill and 'off we'll go into the wild blue --."

"It's Colonel Carter. Didn't you read the bio? She doesn't use O'Neill professionally. Damn it, Sandra, if you're going to do the story, do it right."

"Just checking to see if you're listening, Harry. Of course I read it...that was in the notes. Something about not confusing the riff raff about who's ordering what. Now, of course, that does make one wonder about the kind of orders an astrophysicist would be issuing."

"She's a Colonel, Sandra." She grinned, Harry's eyes burning a bullet hole in her back as he sighed and she ignored him, heading down the staircase purposefully after the Colonel. Yep, Harry was definitely right. "The Press is always a pain in the ass." She saluted the comment, grinning, even though he hadn't voiced the words.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Daniel glared at Jack, who was fidgeting once again with the collar under his bow tie as well as checking his watch for what had to be the thirtieth time, and wondered how the man managed to fidget that much and still keep a full glass of champagne from spilling.

He decided, finally, that it had to have something to do with Jack's military training.

Given that, as usual, there was no reaction from Jack to his glare, Daniel did the now "tried and true" count-to-ten in his head, regrouped mentally, and then tried to give Jack the benefit of the doubt before he actually gave in to his inclinations and starting articulating his annoyance at Jack's behavior.

So... they were at probably most elegant soirée that they'd been at for the last eight years, and yeah, Jack was a military type and not used to "soirees", and yeah, he couldn't imagine Jack doing this type of thing well.

But on the other hand, Jack was a two star general now, and that meant he was going to have to deal with "social" on a regular basis. And when Daniel thought back on other social occasions they'd been at throughout the years on other worlds, Jack had usually come through when needed, although always with his own unique style.

Uhh, yeah. Sure. Sure he had. Daniel sighed and decided his own mental wiring needed some reworking.

But at least this time Jack had kept his mouth shut at appropriate moments, and had agreed politely when he had to some of the time.

It was Jack after all.

Still, something was up. It wasn't just that they were at a reception. Jack just didn't like this scene. It wasn't the dress that was bothering him; and it wasn't the formality; there was some sort of military thing going on.

Daniel sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and moved his glasses higher on his head and then back down. What was confusing him was that fidgeting just wasn't Jack's normal style when he thought a situation was dire. Under dire conditions, Jack was perfectly, scarily, calm and in control.

But when the situation was less than dire, just annoying or bothering Jack for unfathomable reasons, he fidgeted. At the other extreme, when the situation was so grim that they all thought they were going to die, Jack usually started delivering asinine jokes for his own, and mostly no one else's, well, maybe Sam's, amusement.

Daniel summated the statement of issue and current question. Jack was fidgeting; the question was why. The only time Jack fidgeted was when he didn't have control and there was a 'not dire but potentially dangerous' problem. So... Jack thought there was a problem and he was unhappy that he wasn't in control of solving it but as far as Jack could tell none of it was life-threatening.

Daniel watched as Jack scowled and gestured away a waiter who came up to them.

As evidence for Jack's annoyed state and irritation, it was pretty good. He grabbed a canapé before the waiter left and started with the obvious.

"You really don't like this particular party, do you."

Jack shrugged. "Did I say that?"

"Not in so many words, but, yeah."

"Well, then. Why ask?"

"Jack, it'll be ...never mind."

"What? It'll be what?"

"Over soon. And quit doing that."

"Doing what?"

"You know what. That... Fidgeting." Daniel gestured towards Jack's neck where he was once again trying to strangle his tie.

"I don't fidget."

Daniel tried again. "Look, at least the receiving line part is over. And you were in the front so you weren't waiting around for thirty minutes."

Jack smirked, diverted for a moment. "Yeah, I love that protocol stuff; Ambassadors, then Generals; then linguists and other various and sundry riff raff."

"Oh for ... look, I am not playing this game. And stop fidgeting."

Daniel sighed in relief when Jack temporarily abandoned strangling himself and the tie. He looked around the room carefully, trying compromise. "Jack, for the last time, everything seems to be in order."

Jack seemed to consider his statement, and then apparently rejected it, given the current state of his tie.

"Yeah, sure. Still, I wish we could have brought Teal'c along. He loves a good party."

Daniel's imagination couldn't quite wrap around the idea of Teal'c blending quietly into the background of a party that was composed of Washington at its stuffiest best, as far as he could tell. Teal'c being here making a statement as an impressive Ambassador; yep, that he could imagine; as background - well, nope, not a chance in hell.

"Teal'c wouldn't enjoy this. And anyway, you've got eight of the SGC's finest; Chekov's team is here and the FBI is crawling all over the place and I'm here as requested. Jack, it'll be enough."

"Oh yeah, you betcha."

Daniel groaned, defeated, knowing that Jack in his "you betcha" phase meant that the conversation was closed, his mind was set, and that Daniel wasn't going to get anything more out of him. He sighed in exasperation as he watched Jack start fidgeting again, and then decided the hell with it and gestured a waiter towards them in order to score another canapé and another glass of champagne.

Jack just scowled.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

After ten irritating minutes of dealing with "Jack being annoyed and/or a pain in the ass," depending on your perspective, Daniel sincerely welcomed the reprieve when the President and his wife walked up to them. As he maneuvered through the etiquette of greetings, he noted that, at last, Jack had finally stopped fidgeting.

The President turned to him. "Dr. Jackson, it's a pleasure to see you again. I understand you've been away on a dig."

"Yes, sir. At the Royal Tombs in the ancient Sumarian city of Ur."

"I see."

"It's part of what was once Mesopotamia. The British archaologist Wolley discovered the tombs back in 1922, but with the recent activity in the region, another's been unearthed. I was --"

"Daniel." Jack's tone had more than a warning in it.

Daniel caught himself. "Uhh, yes, of course. Sorry, sir."

"No need to apologize. I like to see a man enthusiastic about his work."

Daniel noted that the President seemed to turn to Jack with some relief, however. "So, General, enjoying the reception?"

Jack grimaced. "Sir, about your attendance here..."

The President interrupted. "We went over this earlier, Jack. And I said then I promised Markov I'd give him a hand with this, and I always keep my promises."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

The First Lady broke the brief silence that had settled. "Enough, gentlemen. On another note, General O'Neill, I look forward to meeting Colonel Carter."

Daniel noted with relief that Jack took the change of topic in stride.

"Yes, well, I wouldn't mind seeing her myself, ma'am." He glanced down at his watch yet again. "I'm sorry she's been delayed. There were some last minute issues at Cheyenne Mountain that required her attention. She should be arriving..."

He stopped in the middle of his sentence, staring at the staircase.

The President broke in. "Jack? Is there something wrong?"

"No, sir...uhh... wow."

The President looked toward the woman Jack was staring at dumbfounded. "Stunningly beautiful."

"Yeah; ya think?" Jack's voice sounded confused.

"Definitely."

The First Lady interrupted, both amused and annoyed. "Henry."

The President coughed. "Yes, of course. General, as I'm sure you're aware, neither my wife nor yours would be amused --"

"She probably will be."

"Excuse me?"

"Amused."

"General?"

"Sorry, sir. The thing is that I think that is Colonel Carter. Hard to be sure, though."

"You think that's her? Don't you know?" The President's tone was slightly startled.

"Well, I haven't seen her in two weeks. You never know what she's..."

Daniel broke in before the situation got out of hand. "Jack, you --uhh. He's joking, sir. Of course that's Colonel Carter."

"I see." It was clear from his tone that the President didn't see anything.

Jack couldn't seem to help himself. "Not a clone?"

"Jack - not funny."

"OK, alternate reality."

"Stop."

"Artificial life form?"

"Jack, we're in DC at a reception, for heaven sakes. Not Cheyenne Mountain." Daniel turned to the President. "Sir, sometimes his humor is a little ..."

"Unusual?" The President smiled.

"Actually, I was going to say unique."

The President looked back at Jack, who was still staring at the staircase. Daniel hit him in the ribs.

Jack coughed, and then smiled. "Sorry, sir. It's just that we don't get out much...uhh... I mean out of uniform... uhh. I don't exactly mean that either. Anyway, it's a nice rig."

The First Lady laughed. "General, as my husband said, the Colonel is stunningly beautiful. I suggest you be sufficiently articulate and mention it. As a woman, I have to warn you that she'll probably..." she paused, looking for a military phrase, "shoot you if all you have to say is 'nice rig'."

"That's all right then. She's threatened that any number of times."

"Jack, stop."

Jack grinned and looked toward the President and his wife. "Sir, ma'am, if you'll excuse me I'd like to go greet my wife."

"Of course." The President turned to Daniel. "Unique, you said."

"Yes, sir." Daniel sighed.

The First Lady commented, "I like him. It's rare to see a man distracted from power politics by the arrival of his wife. Refreshingly honest. "

Suddenly Daniel realized that that seemed to settle everything.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N. Thanks for the comments and alerts! This is the last finished chapter of this story, so the rest will come more slowly. Again, thanks for reading.

Part 4

Sandra managed to get just close enough to O'Neill and his wife so that she could hear their greetings without being noticed. She kept the pencil camera ready. They'd already confiscated her cell phone as being too obvious. But Harry had oked the pencil.

"General."

"Colonel."

General? Colonel? Who the hell called their spouse by a military title? These were two really weird birds.

Then she saw the smiles - ok, maybe not so weird. She took a shot and quickly turned away, listening. She already had a killer pic. Now she needed the good stuff.

"I assume you left the Mountain in good hands."

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Yeah. The naq-- uhh... power source for the new beta site needed recalibration to the..."

"Carter."

"Sorry." She cleared her throat. "Siler's still working on it."

"Which means?

"Which means I - "

O'Neill sighed and then finished the sentence for her. "-- need to get back there."

"Yeah."

"Damn it, Sam." Sandra noticed that O'Neill's tone was more resigned than angry.

"Jack, I have to be there if you really want it up and running by --"

"Nevermind."

Sandra waited, cheerfully. The silence couldn't be good. She was gonna get some dirt; something like the difficulty of military marriages. She couldn't help it. She turned around to watch the fireworks.

But O'Neill just switched gears.

"Hey, nice rig."

Sandra grimaced, appalled, as she watched O'Neill gesture towards the Colonel's Versase. OK, this was definitely gonna be good. He was clearly a dead man.

But the Colonel's smile lit up the room. It was the only way to describe it.

"Thanks."

O'Neill's grin back at her was some sort of self-satisfied smirk.

"Yeah. Before I forget, the First Lady told me that I'm supposed to tell you that you're stunningly beautiful. She seemed to think you'd shoot me if I didn't."

"She what?"

"The President started it. The 'stunningly beautiful' piece was from him, but the First Lady thought I should borrow it, given that she thinks I'm... umm... 'insufficiently articulate' on this topic. "

"Jack, you've got to be joking."

"Nope. The 'nice rig' stuff is all mine."

He smiled.

"You're insane."

"I'm not. But I did miss you." He reached up to briefly touch his wife's face.

Sandra decided that if anyone ever looked at her like that, she'd ... well.

"And you are stunningly beautiful. But I forgive you for it."

"Jack?"

"Colonel, you're leaving in twelve hours - the next three of which have to be spent here doing this... social stuff. And I'm going to have to put up with every man in the room being... interested. But ..."

"I missed you too."

He smiled. "Good. You don't suppose there's a closet nearby, do you?"

She laughed. "Beats me, but I doubt it."

"Too bad."

She grinned again. "Uhuh. By the way, you're not the only one that has to put up with 'interest'. The Washington Post reporter I met on the way in described you as 'eye candy'."

"Oh yeah, sure she did."

"I'm serious, Jack."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh, for crying out loud. That's all I need."

"Yep, and she described you as the latest 'Mystery on the Mall."

"That's just great."

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

Sandra watched in astonishment as the Colonel gestured towards what had to be an Armani tux.

"Nice rig."

He smiled. "Glad you like it."

The foolish grins on both of their faces were priceless. Sandra snapped another photo.

The Colonel cleared her throat. "So, uh...the party still on?"

"Oh yeah."

"Still not happy about it?"

O'Neill shrugged. "You know how I love these shindigs."

"You do when you're hosting them."

"Don't remind me that I'm not."

"Jack, the President specifically requested that you leave this to Home**land **security."

"I know."

"And Colonel Chekov assured you that the Russians are in a party mood."

"Oh yeah, that was reassuring."

"At least he's military."

O'Neill grimaced. "I know, it's his party; his and the local boys. We have to let them play."

"Yeah."

He brightened. "On the other hand, I did bring along Daniel, Davis and some of the rest of the gang."

"Oh lord, Jack."

"Hey, they'd never forgive me if they missed the fun."

"As in... hanging out around the President."

"You got it. Daniel's been talking his ear off about the latest Mesopotanian dig."

"P3X982??"

"No, the one in ...Mesopotamia."

"Oh."

"Of course, the President did ask."

"I see. So?"

O'Neill shrugged. "It's nothin'. Did I mention that the catering's actually pretty good? Not your run of the mill cooks."

"Well, in that case there's bound to be cake."

O'Neill smiled. "Cake, it is." He shook his head, seeming to clear it. "Enough updates. The First Lady wants to meet you. We need to go."

OK, it was definite. They were really weird birds. Sandra decided she couldn't let them leave without getting some 'weird bird' quotes or figuring out what the hell that last conversation of theirs was about. No one, but no one, spent that much time talking about...the catering and ...cake. It was now or never.

She broke in. "Excuse me. I'm --"

The Colonel interrupted. "Jack, this is Sandra Peterson of the Washington Post." Sandra noted that the Colonel looked highly amused. O'Neill, on the other hand, looked like a startled hare ready to bolt for its hole.

"Hey, nice to meet you. Look, the President's waiting." And with that, O'Neill grabbed his wife's arm and literally dragged her across the room.

Sandra grimaced regretfully as she watched them merge into the crowd. Damn. She'd lost the chance. Now the only way to get any dirt was to go play waiter... FBI... whatever... with the boys at the top of the stairs where she could see everything. It was worth a shot.

TBC…


End file.
